Rivers Flow In You
by MisfortuneCookie
Summary: Kenny McCormick possesses the notoriety of humping anything that walks; but he has to be the first one to alter that identical proposition. And when he comes across somebody in particular, an unnameable emotion stirs in him like never before: all while having a lingering deja vu that he can't scratch the surface of - [Kendy/Bunny]
1. The Final Bull - Chapter I

_Ohaider. So, this is my FIRST fanfiction, therefore I'm eager to receive the feedback from y'all peeps :3. I'm a successfully published author, and I'll initially apprise that I **don't** have any 'The Catcher in the Rye' critical acclamation status. Naw, but I'm going to refrain from releasing further information to avoid any direct contact, since this website is a guilty pleasure. So I've already violated the silent 'brief headline' obligation, so I'm gonna HURRY UP-_

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><p><strong>The following material encompasses the potential of triggering immature audiences, subsequent to exhibiting content such as explicit dialogue Suitable for 1213+**

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><p><span><strong>Rivers Flow In You<strong>

**Chapter I - The Final Bull**

_Love is represented as a captive animal, external to the person in love but held onto by him or her, such that letting the animal loose represents loss of control over the feelings of love, and holding onto the animal represents retention of control. He couldn't hold back his love. She let go of her feelings._

Kenny McCormick was a notably distinct child; he disregards the principles of general conformity, hence his literally unbelievable life dysfunction. He possessed the station in most children's eyes as the silent observer of the quartet, which encompassed Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman, and occasionally Leopold Scotch, prominently labeled as "Butters," which most people knew him as.

Kenny had a friendly liking for Butters. Kenny was a neutral viewer. He had a grey perspective, unlike most other thirteen-year-olds in the modest but dysfunctional mountain town of South Park, he analyzed everything. More so than most people, who categorize themselves as "smart," relatively pompously. And that's why he saw Butters more recognizable than anyone else. As Kenny were to examine the actions and behaviors of Butters, either if it was he was bored and scanning the hallways as Kyle and Cartman were engaging in yet another typical juvenile argument (you'd imagine their argumentative maturity would evolve decreasingly over the years, but no), or if he was directly conversing with Butters himself, he made but two conclusions. One; Butters is dedicated, compassionate and considerate. And two; Butter's a fuckin' genius! Kenny thought Butters was a genius. He analyzed Butters to his bones, until he discovered that Butters' most likely did the same to _him._

On projects, Kenny frequently collaborated with Butters on scholastic assignments and homework. And Butters would often generate propositions that made Kenny's eyes expand for a moment. A noteworthy occurrence was in 6th grade; where they acted like drunken best friends whenever they got together outside of school. They were obliged an educational exercise, where they needed to craft a catapult with the provided materials from their shop teacher. Butters' mouth had rocketed out information of torque and pivot physics to trigger the execution of matter - so on and so forth. Kenny was absorbing this all of this with half of his conscious, and the other was busy thinking about Butters.

There was also Tweek Tweak, a jittery coil-spring, who's addiction had negatively progressed since middle school. But there was one other person that Kenny saw out of the others. Wendy Testaburger. He's yet to directly interact with her. And here's the weird thing; it's not because he psychoanalyzed her based on the physical actions and so on; no. He just felt as though she was... well, something. Not a specific characteristic jumped to his tongue, but he thought positive of her. From what he can see, she was polite, mature, and intelligent. That was it. He had no geeky ambition of being with her, especially due to her concurrent relationship with Stan Marsh.

Kenny had a moral opinion that's stood still since third grade; he that women were overrated. As notorious for, he was a horndog, humping anything that walks. In fact, had a domestically infamous masturbation problem; not a day went by without self-gratifying himself at least three times. But he always felt as though romantically associating with women was overvalued. He vented his internal stances to Stan Marsh, predominantly to provoke him aside his girlfriend. Aside from the context of sounding generally sadistic, it was satisfying to Kenny to vex Stan like that.

He typically informed Stan on his standpoints at the bus stop, when they assembled on schedule, commonly converging in odd unison. Kyle would usually retort a counter for Stan, since Stan was more apathetic and absorbent, whereas Kyle was the morality compass and voice of the group. Something like "The fuck, Kenny?" or "Really dude?" or some short 'cop.'

"Hey, Stan?" Kenny eagerly uttered, with a sense of humor in his blissful tone. He approached in in the transition between school periods in the locker hall.

Stan pivoted his head towards Kenny in reply. He raised his brows in the 'what?' fashion.

"Didn't you used to do magic tricks?"

Stan chuckled. "Yeah, but in, like, sixth grade."

"I have a magic trick-"

"Oh _fuck _that," Stan instantaneously stated. He knew that whenever the general topic of magic arose, he would always pull out a cock joke or something else related to cocks. Stan now had an instinct to avoid, luckily. "Nope Kenny!"

"I know how to turn a fox into an elephant!" A grin was tugging on the corner of Kenny's lips, masked behind his tight parka. He couldn't help at chortling at himself, but luckily, it was muffled by the confines of his thick winter coat, keeping his laughs from being edgewise.

Stan swallowed, deciding to take a bullet, just for the curiosity of Kenny's boundless quantity of offensive jokes. "Okay... how?" Kyle peered around Stan to observe for himself.

"You be it's girlfriend... and call her WENDY!" Kenny guffawed, breaking the dam of his laughter, before the capacity of his lungs were vacant from boisterous outbursts. Stan's face stirred in anger, and swung his foot into Kenny's shin, stopping his laughing.

"Hey!" Kenny sharply muffled. Behind Stan, Kyle had to turn his back to disguise his smile, finding the joke to actually be funny. A chuckle escaped his possession, making its way to Stan's realization.

"What, you thought it was funny?" he sternly said, half curious and half vexed.

"Kind of," Kyle bluntly retorted, somewhat aloof. Stan rolled his eyes.

Kenny walked away with content, getting a head start on traveling to his following period. Kenny never had anything out for Wendy; he just received gratification from exasperating Stanley, via using the one thing that triggers him; Wendy. Come to think of it, analytic Kenny McCormick reflected on the fact that Stan had seldom spend time with Wendy as of lately. And come to think of it further, Stan and Wendy seemed to haven't interact with her in about a week or two. Maybe... that was why?

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><p>At the lunch table, Kenny was chewing on his sandwich of leftover turkey pressed between two slices of wheat bread, beside Tweek Tweak as they concentrated on the centralization of the dinner table, which was one of Kyle and Cartman's excessive verbal fights, which originated from the claim of Cartman stereotyping Jews, once again. Kenny usually just examined, and Tweek apparently sat there in suspense, as if the ground was ready to fall. The vocal volume raised.<p>

"You're a fucking dipshit!" Kyle snapped.

"I'm telling you guys," a counter Cartman usually adopted (facingt the audience) that contented his argument for some reason. "9/11 was a JEWISH movement! Look it up!"

"_Islam is different from Judaism, Fuckhead!"_ Kyle sharply replied.

The argument only escalated from there, and the action rose from there. Something was wrong that lunch, though. Everyday, with the exception of one of the quartet being suspended or ill, since kindergarten, they _always _sat together at the lunch table. But Stan was oddly sitting at another table, eating his Papa John's pizza. They missed the climax, because Kenny ugged the sleeve of Butters' cyan shirt, acquiring his attention. He raised my finger in the direction of Stan's lunch table, pointing it out to Butters as he scanned Stanley. They processed in unison, and the two picked up their lunches, ambling over to Stan.

Kenny invited himself to the isolated table, throwing his plate-less sandwich onto the table, seemingly disregarding it being insanitary. Butters set his lunch box down. "Hey, what's up?" Kenny asked.

"The fuck do you want?" Stan hissed.

"Why so pissy?" Kenny egged, with a trace of compassion. Kenny examined Stan's unkempt display. He had heavy, sunken eyes; his facial features paler and bleaker than ordinary. His hair was disheveled, and his brown coat was so disordered that it was near to unacceptable in a public vicinity. You thought _Kenny _was neglected the principles of sanitation; Kenny and Butters could almost envision the flying larva revolving around Stan. Even his trademark winter hat was absent, a signature that he sported daily. His entire exterior was bedraggled. Pity and worry, two emotion Kenny scarcely possesses, flooded him._  
><em>

Kenny sat down on the table row seat, tossing his lanky legs over the bench and positioned himself towards Stan from across the the table.

"Seriously man, what's up?"

Stan released a sigh. "Wendy's a cunt."

"Whoa, what the fuck happened?" Kenny was thrown back. Subsequent to Kenny's request of the scenario, Stan verbally illustrated the negative occurrence. But we all know what happens when you asked a pissed-off, male teenager who just labeled his supposedly ex-girlfriend a "cunt" how they departed: It's foretold in a bias. And that's what happened. But this is how the incident _realistically _unfolded:

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><p><em>Wendy was, as accustomed on schooldays, was sauntering aside Stan Marsh, who wore a conspicuous mask of ennui. Wendy took notice to his behavior as she walked on the street-bordered sidewalk, whereas Stanley's individual steps were heavier.<em>

_"Is there something wrong Stan?" Wendy inquired, only to receive a black sigh from vexed Stan._

_"Are you going to ask that every **minute **now? Jesus Christ on a bicycle,"_

_"Sorry..." Wendy replied through her hostile clenched teeth, making an essay to let it slide off of her shoulder, as she did too often. She did this ever since middle school, when the relationship between the two was attempting to grasp on it's last thread of association. Attempting to diverge the concurrent pessimism in the air, Wendy steered the conversation towards something more optimistic. "You want to work on homework together tomorrow?"_

_"No. I have to go to some stupid concert for my sister."_

_"Well, did you try that muffin I made you?"_

_"What muffin?"_

_Wendy's face flushed, as anger stirred inside of her mental barrier that could barely restrict her current anger, before it was substituted with a shot of dejection and sorrow, occupying the temporary vacancy that voided her with despondence. "But Stan..." Her voice started to extend, before it broke. "I made that muffin! It took me forever to make! WHA..."  
><em>

_"Okay, Jesus fucking Christ, I'll eat it! Damn. Didn't know a fucking lump of shit meant the world to you."  
><em>

_She could barely limit herself from beating the shit out of Stan. She had the capability; but not the intention._

_"Do you want to see the new Terrance & Phillip movie?" Wendy notably despised the immature Canadian duo, who performed nothing but archetypal, reincarnated toddler humor. She just wanted to catch a glimpse of Stan being in the state of pleasure for once, while she still felt hurt.  
><em>

_"No," Stanley bluntly grunted. "the movies aren't good anymore."_

_"You were prematurely impacted from Asses of Fire! You nearly killed the two!" Wendy outburst, pushed to the edge of the cliff. She let go and let it out._

_"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Stan sternly sharped. He knotted his brows, as Wendy stared at her reflection in his eyes of scorn, the ones she felt like putting a bullet between. Her emotions fell, as new ones rose._

_"You know how much it pisses me off that you think me giving you a muffin isn't a big deal, when I spent SUCH a LONG time on it! Fuck you! I'm still pissed off from you shunning the hat I had woven you in seventh grade! You take no ones' feelings into consideration! Ever!" She stopped, only to accelerate. "You are uncultured, uncaring, disregarding, and insensitive, Stan. Fuck you!"_

_"At least I don't act all morally superior because I pretend I had a **fucking **clue about politics, or feminism frequency, or whatever fucking weekly soapbox issue you have today!"_

_"Fuck you Stan! You've just turned into a jackass since your fucking parents got divorced." Stan replied by physically shoving her, subsequently causing her to stumble back, and fall unbalanced as her tailbone collided into the asphalt, as Stan's eyes nailed her with contempt, whereas her's began to__swim. She lifted herself off of the ink-colored concrete, and sprinted in the distance towards her household, but not before Stan let the final bull loose._

_"**I HATE YOU!**"_

_Rivers of fluid streamed out of her reflective eyes, drawing lines of emotional pain on her face, continuing to run. She flew the front door of her residence open, as he ran upstairs, throwing the door of her bedroom closed an locked._

Stan had no regret or pain that day. Butters had listened to Stan's side of the story, absorbing it with belief. Kenny knew the deal, though.

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><p><strong><em>...Was it gewd? ;D I'm really excited to see what y'all think about this. This is the first chapter of what will be a KennyWendy drama-romance fanfiction, and this was sort of a teaser of what you can be expecting next. Suggest this to your fellow fanfiction viewers if you feel this story is worthy of doing so. Feedback, negative or positive, would be highly appreciated. I already have a CRAZY plot twist up my sleeve, so stay tuned if you wish._**

**_Anyway, thanks y'all, and be prepared for the second chapter. Kenny/Wendy action (no, not THAT action) will start kicking in the third chapter; I don't want to rush the exposition._**


	2. Dreams, Rain, Migraines - Chapter II

_Howdy again! Overnight, last chapter already has gotten a ton of views and counting! Thanks again y'all. Next chapter, Kendy interaction and stuff will really start climbing up the cliff. Stay tuned! ... Oh, by the way, this chapter encompasses Kenny getting beat by his alcoholic father, so please be warned._

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><p><span><strong>Rivers Flow In You<strong>

**Chapter II -**

Three years later after the harsh depart of Stan and Wendy, the confines of Kenny's nocturnal state vanished behind his weighed eyelids as they rose, inviting the dry illumination that entered through the squalid roof window, as he stirred from his imagination. His sharpening vision absorbed the compact vicinity of his room. Kenny McCormick didn't even have a pot to piss in. Due to his dramatic poverty, Kenny made due with a tight closet for a bedroom, with a small aforementioned roof window for light. During the nightfall state of day, the room was pitch black. Kenny could barely pivot his eyebrows, but the claustrophobic area suited Kenny, as he adjusted to it over the years.

He frequently woke with numerous spiders, hence the crevice in the cupboard wall. Is was as if they were attempting to scare him finally, because they didn't trigger a mere jolt, since Kenny he grew up with household infestations of arachnids and rodents. Every once in a while, He would compassionately snuggle with the rats he woke up with, a rather atypical relationship to animals.

He slept on a sordid mattress, unsupported by anything like urban beds, like reflective pillars of fiber or boxes. It was torn apart, encompassing rifts, expanding in variety from large, ravine-like and small tears. Almost every coil-spring penetrated through the cushion of the mattress, painted with dried blood, subsequent to Kenny rolling over in his sleep and frequently lacerating his soft skin, as the ends were extremely sharpened.

Kenny often awakened at midnight, where his intoxicated father, Stewart McCormick would bulldoze into the household, before committing an abusive rampage. Kenny was his primary target. That is, when his protective older brother Kevin had become sixteen and moved out, failing in the court of law to bring his two younger siblings. And now Kenny was the man of the house; to protect Karen. His only purpose in living was to shield her, being the brave hero of Karen. You are her guardian angel, he often told himself, reference to his alter ego "Mysterion."

But this morning was an exception, distinct to the predicted. He didn't wake up in the middle of the night; he saw the dawn light. It was soon from worse, though. Naive Kenny should have know that the tranquil daybreak would be brief from his worst nightmare. Literally. Absolutely literally.

He stood up on his mattress with struggle, as the mattress barely fit in the closet. He rotated the partially functional doorknob, as it flew ajar on it's squeaky hinges. He circumspectly stepped out, swiftly scanning both directions of the hallway, as if a sniper was waiting for him. He emerged from the cupboard, and ambled in the kitchen, as the faint sound of footsteps grew to his ears.

He saw his mother, standing on the cracked, unstable kitchen tiles of practical splinters, wielding a rectangular box of most likely stale and expired cereal flakes. Kenny lit up from his prior suspense, comfortably ambling into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Kenny! I poured some cereal into a cup for you. The milk is a little sour, though." she greeted with her hoarse, Texan-accented voice. Kenny gave her a warm hug, adjusting his slightly disheveled parka. He took the cup, and started eating with his hand (spoons were extremely limited; only used if absolutely entailed).

"Where's Stewart?" Kenny asked, disrespectfully labeling his father by his first name intentionally. No one corrected him besides Stewart himself, though. They had a reason to mistreat him as a father. His mother's initially blissful face fell, flooding as if Kenny had asked where babies come from (he knew, of course, after years of porn and sex).

"Don't worry. Now, hurry up, Kenny. I'm going to ask you to go to school a little early." his mother said. Kenny saw the worry in the reflection of her eyes, and saw past her mask as he knew she was on the skeptical edge of Stewart coming home late. Kenny usually woke up at five, and stayed up a couple hours before it was time for school. Kenny hoped it wasn't just his father staying at the bar for five hours longer. It would be the maximum load of abuse if so.

Kenny nonchalantly ambled back into the hallway, aiming for the bathroom as he walked, which was adjacent to his cupboard. In the morning, he typically took off his parka to let his restricted pours breathe. He always sported his trademark winter jacket whilst at slumber, to warm him from the absent air conditioning. He ate his cereal as he walked.

Suddenly, Kenny was alarmed at the abrupt sound of the front door flying open, having his chest sink as it skipped a beat. He gasped, muffled by the confines of his parka. He instantaneously ran into Karen's room, essaying to hide her while his father did what he predicted would happen next.

Unfortunately, his anticipation took violent action.

"You BITCH! Where are you? Why couldn't I fucking call you!?" he barked, stomping into the kitchen. His eyes were colored with every scent and shade of pure contempt and irrational fury, as his intoxicated heart raced up his throat. He threateningly stood in front of his spouse, grinding his clenched teeth with drunken rage.

Kenny shook Karen awake, and strongly lifted her up, internally planning to hide her in the cramped crawl space underneath the house."Kenny?" she said, stirring from her sleep. Kenny didn't reply. He rushed her into their parent's bedroom, where the attic entrance was located. Karen blindly listened her father shout with fright, silently crying as it ensued.

"Come on Karen. It's okay. Let's go." he said. Tears flowed out of Kenny's eyes as he rushed as well.

"Why the FUCK are there so many FUCKING lights and shit!?" Kenny's mom was silently absorbing as her husband verbally lashed out on her, before the auditory clues of slapping and shoving made their way two the two children. Kenny opened the bedroom closet, and opened the latch that opened the trapdoor to the crawl space, blending with the carpet surrounding it.

"There's a lot of spiders, but it's okay. I'll scare them away." Kenny protectively said. He put his sister inside, before stomping took place in the hallway. Disregarding his own safety, primarily concerned with Karen's, he shut the door and stood erect before his father. Silence flooded the room, so much that you could recognize the sound of a pin drop.

Stewart McCormick cracked his jaw, grinding them, before throwing the applied force of his heavy, horny fist into Kenny's face, as he flew back. "What the FUCK are you doing in my room, you scrawny fuck?!" The metallic, oily liquid of blood drained out of between Kenny's split lips, as he become mentally unbalanced and disoriented, glancing at his father.

"That was a question!" he shot, kicking Kenny in the stomach with might. "Don't you DARE look at me you fuck!"

"I was just..." Kenny tried to make an excuse. "looking through the window. I thought I heard a dog..." he hoarsely wheezed out. His father grabbed him by the throat, throwing his face into the hard concrete wall. Kenny stumbled, falling onto the bed. Stewart repeatedly punched him in the gullet, ribs, face, and back.

What followed was a series of relentless abuse, without the centered principle of sequence or organization. Stewart had threw his fist at him until his head nearly unhinged off of the base of his lanky neck, spinning in rapid revolutions. He had continued to lash his skin with his leather waist belt, kick him until he was breathing his own heart, and beating his face inside-out.

When he had concluded his beating, Stewart threw Kenny against the wall, as his limp, near to dead, body fell. He regurgitated the pints of vital fluid he inhaled in the process, which painted his entire face, as if it was masking his dislocated nose and vacant teeth. He wheezed, sweating bullets and twitching. His eyes departed, as he ejected his stomach matter, before falling into the possession of shock. Kenny vaguely recalled the sounds of Stewart exiting the house, as everything around him vividly illuminated into neon shades. His blood pressure skyrocketed, before his ocular plane descended into darkness, as he fell unconscious. Karen remained in the crawl space for nearly another hour.

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><p>It had been the next day when Kenny woke up. He was in his cupboard, lying on his recognizable mattress, with an unpleasant greeting of the sharp coils that penetrated the restriction of the mattress cushion. Kenny stirred and moaned, partially from the persistent agonizing pain that ached every contracting tissue in his body. He mustered his remaining stamina to pull himself up, and open the door. He stepped out, nearly falling headfirst into the shag, abused carpet. His entire optical state was rotating, and he couldn't tell his left from right.<p>

He murmured, "Today's gonna be a shitty day."

At school, he had a heavy migraine, pounding his head down as if twenty G's of gravitational energy was forcing his head down like magnetism. He had to retire to the bathroom at least five times to spontaneously catapult his own stomach. One time, he couldn't help holding it in, and hurled during Language Arts, of which he attended with Kyle and Tweek. Everyone knew something was wrong with Kenny McCormick; he was swerving in directions all day, his eyes were sunken and bloody, his lip was split, he had a dislocated nose, his jaw was out of place, and his entire face was battered and bruised in general.

When it was lunch time, everyone had already been in the cafeteria. The period transitions were over, but Kenny was clumsily stumbling down the corridor, tiled with sketched beige and cyan blue squares. He had bashed into the metallic tin surface of the cornflower blue lockers, leaning on it as he walked. His vision began to sharpen. In the distance, he optically recognized a vague figure: blonde with a baby blue shirt.

"Fucking A," Kenny moaned. He decided to just wait the rest of the day in the janitor's closet or the bathroom. He dragged his body across the lockers until they met an extremity, and Kenny put his hand out for a door. His delayed vision finally went back into gear, and he sauntered, with aim for the door. He retired in the janitor paraphernalia space, and sat in the vacant corner of the room of sanitation articles, but not before he closed the janitor closet door. He removed his hood, releasing liters of sweat. It was dark and compact, reminding him fondly of his cupboard at home.

Then, outside of the closet, footsteps entered his ears as they transcribed in the corridor. The door opened, illuminating Kenny."Kenny?" Butters asked.

Kenny was reassured from anxiety to see it was only Butters. Butters promptly swooped on his knee, inserting his hands underneath Kenny's shoulders, elevating him off of the polished, concrete tiles. He leaned Kenny against his own chest, heaving him as his flaccid limbs hung loosely. He wrapped his soft hands around Kenny's thick winter jacket as he trudged towards the nurse's office.

While Butters had been striding Kenny towards the office, a woman approached Butters. He curiously pivoted his head towards her in unison with disoriented Kenny. The woman revealed herself to be Wendy Testaburger; having a lavender pink beret on top of her thick, silky jet-black hair that was carried by the air as she walked. She sported a dark violet button shirt, extended to her hands that were inside navy-colored gloves. Below the waistline extremity of her shirt, she wore highlighted yellow pants, above a pair of standard shoes.

Kenny continued to limply lean against Butters, until Wendy Testaburger was in front of the two. Her reflective, hazel eyes widened, which were behind a set of lengthy eyelashes. "Whoa, what the fuck?" she exclaimed.

"I-I don't know," said Butters. "can you help me?"

Without hesitation, she swiftly positioned herself behind Kenny, and put her head under his arm, helping carrying him to the office. When they arrived to their destination, they put Kenny down on the medical cot. The nurse turned around from her desk; she was a beefy woman, wielding a cup of coffee in the grip of her thick fingers. She stood up from the spindly rolling chair, examining Kenny.

"How did _this _happen?" she nonchalantly said, as if everyday a child came in with a face that looked like it was chiseled out of half-melted play dough. Butters took rather offense for Kenny, as Kenny lay there without a clue of what color the sky was.

"I don't know!" Butters shot.

"Okay. Let me take a look," she hunched over Kenny, casting a wide shadow over him.

"What happened here, hun?" the lumpy nurse asked Kenny.

"Oh... I just fell down the stairs outside..." he lied through his teeth, before subtly muttering "_or something... I guess." _that no one else took recognition of. Wendy left the office, feeling awkward as if it was none of her business, subsequent to Butters initially taking Kenny to the office and replying to the nurse's clumsy questions.

"Well, alright. Let's patch you up, huh?" The nurse said with her nasal voice that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Her flat, pudgy nose made the addition to her swine-akin appearance and attitude. Kenny felt better after lying down, but his throbbing forehead continued to generate pulsating agony. The nurse concluded Kenny may have a concussion.

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><p><strong>So that's it. Next chapter, I promise KennyWendy stuff will initiate. DUN DUN DUN. ****And by the way, leaving a review and/or comment would be extremely appreciated; it really motivates me. Also a suggestion is to listen to Canon in D (Pachelbel) while writing fanfiction. It really helps write and generate ideas. Listen to the Ryan Jones version (highly recommended). Anyway, Thanks and buh-bye :D**


	3. Carouse Carousel - Chapter III

_So, to roughly summarize this chapter: Kenny go to party. Wendy go to party. Kenny get drunk because sad. Wendy take Kenny home. xD but this chapter is gonna sort of be the hook-shot reel for action. So, with that said, I'm really sorry, but 100000000% promise and positive that in the next chapter, Kenny/Wendy interaction content shit will initiate._

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><p><span><strong>Rivers Flow In You<strong>

**Chapter III - Carouse Carousel**

As usual, Kenny was in his cupboard, with an erotic article of topless women, possessing prominent, spherical breasts that Kenny wished were three-dimensional. He was excessively masturbating with bliss. It was the only vent he could find besides sex that contented him from the relentless life of constant abuse, poverty, dysfunction, and depression.

All until his phone rang. The phone was given to him for mainly emergencies, and that's why it was only a used, damaged flip phone that sufficed calls and texts. He adopted a default ring, that was noticeably flipped it open, therefore stopping the sharp timbre of the irritating ring tone. He held it to his ear as he removed his urgent hand from his pants. He was greeted by the identifiable voice of Kyle Broflovski, the Jew of the quartet.

"Hey Kenny." he happily greeted. Kenny lit up.

"Hey Kyle!" he muffled through the substandard-audio and background static. "What's up?"

"I'm throwing a party on Wednesday," Wednesday was tomorrow, Kenny reflected. "wanna come?" he offered, with the expected anticipation of Kenny predictably replying 'Yes.'

"Yeah, sure. I got nothing else to do."

"'Aight, cool. It's at my house."

"Are you dick parents going to peer over us so we don't do anything to insane. You know, like walking inside with our shoes on," he cynically asked with contempt for his overprotective, religious parents.

"Nope. They're out of town. They don't even know I'm having a party."

"Oh, Kyle. So bad," he sarcastically teased. "and can you do me a favor?"

Kyle paused for a moment, aware of the perversions of Kenny McCormick. "What is it?"

"Ask Bebe to come."

"Fuck you Kenny!" Kyle had confessed to the quartet of his secretive passion for Bebe a few months prior. But the typical Kyle couldn't muster enough courage to do anything about, thus having lingering guilt and urge. Everyone pushed him into doing it, but the closest interaction that ever transcribed were mere passages in paths by each other. Kyle wanted to, but he didn't. He was the archetypal pundit-geek who keep stepping back, with the whispers of anxiety, like rejection.

"Just meet me by the bus stop this morning, all right?" Kenny said. Kyle accepted, with the strong urge to decline, skip school, and go make a living in another country. But a suggestion that was subliminally planted in Kyle, was a partial agreement with Kenny.

After the two had finished their mourning school-preparation routine, Kenny appeared at the daily bus stop before anybody else; awaiting Kyle's delayed presence, relatively impatiently, as an awkward suspension of his appearance kept him aloofly leaned against the bus stop that had dozens of nails and tacs inserted into it's chippy fiber.

At last, Kenny identified the lanky boy in the chroma-colored green ushanka approaching him through the dense fog. The entire town was submerged in the vapor-akin clouds that rested on the ground, crowding South Park. You might be able to see two meters maximum clearly, but able to make out the rough outline of an object in the distance of three meters. Kyle ambled closer.

"Hey man," Kyle introduced, a fraction between time before Kenny would propose some sarcastic comment, like 'took you long enough.' "now, before you say anything, allow me to protest! It's none of your business to insert yourself into, and I have all rights to restrict her from the party! I... eh... Just..." He began to stammer his support, unbalancing his argument. Kenny wasted no time to respond, still maintaining strict on his initial proposition.

"Okay, Kyle Broflovski. Allow me to retort." he hid a smug grin behind the thick wall that was his parka. "You are sixteen years old. It's time for you to stop sucking on your dreidle. Do you know how many women I've fucked? It's time for you to stop hiding, and embrace!" Kyle face flushed a tinge of peach. "Come on, Kyle. To be honest, it would be more satisfying for me to be a man, and maybe get rejected, than to hide my feelings forever."_  
><em>

Kyle stood, reflecting in depth. Thoughts in his head alternated in revolutions, internally comparing the positive chances and negative chances on an imaginary scale. He swallowed his pride with maturity. "Yeah..." he bluntly uttered, as his eyes fell into the asphalt underneath the souls of his sneakers. He pivoted his head back up, before continuing. "I think I get it..." Kyle, unlike most biased teenagers, was open-minded and absorbent. "I will. I will."

And he did. But, it was an admittedly shitty experience:

'Shit, shit, fuck, shit, ass, cunt, fuck, shit' Kyle Broflovski thought. He mustered every single tracing of courage, naivety and optimism while he approached Bebe Stevens in the corridor, whom was concurrently conversing with Wendy Testaburger. 'Don't fuck up, don't fuck up... be a man. Grow a pair, you fucking cowardly twat' Kyle reassured himself. He took a deep breath to balance his trembling feet and stammered breaths. A grin drew his face, before immediately falling when he spoke.

"Hey, Bebe?" he brought attention to himself. 'Shit, was that inappropriate because she was talking to somebody? Is there a time machine somewhere?' he internally barked at himself. Kenny peered his eye around the corner of the hallway, having hope in Kyle. Bebe kept her expression of casualty, and that made Kyle somewhat more content, but still was (metaphorically) pissing between his anxiously quivering legs.

"Yeah?" she replied.

"Do you want to come to this party Wednesday at my house?" The boundless quantity of profane regrets echoed between the flaps of Kyle's ushanka inside of his head. The final offer and climax had Kyle's stomach sink into his rectum. He just said; fuck it and fuck everything, waiting for a response in unison with spying Kenny McCormick.

"Yeah, sure. What time?"

"Eight." he informed.

"Alright. Thanks!" she said with bliss.

"You can come too." Kyle unceremoniously offered to Wendy additionally, for the purpose to refrain excluding her upfront. She accepted, via head nod, before Kyle ambled out of the corridor, as Kenny tucked his head back behind the corner. Kyle felt waves of satisfaction, flowing all the way to his fingertips. He had a subconscious whisper that he may have made an error, but he shoved it away with his reining glee.

"Nice!" Kenny exclaimed when he came, raising his two hands that offered a celebratory high-five of jubilation.

"Yeah, motherfucker!" Kyle clapped Kenny's elevated palms, with exuberant festivity.

* * *

><p>"Hey, where the fuck is that piece of shit?" Stewart said as he walked into the house on Wednesday afternoon, an hour before the scheduled date for the party. No intoxication was hinted in his vocalization, but definite hostility as he approached Kenny, who was current in the unorthodox dining room, which encompassed only a table and four stools surrounding it, lacking any decor. He was chewing on a molded Pop-Tart.<p>

Kenny groaned, anticipating more bullshit from his excuse of a father. He hadn't seen him since two days ago when he had relentless beaten him into a pulp, luckily. "I got a fucking phone call the other day about your sorry ass. Did you fucking exaggerate everything? Did you act like a poor little victim again?" God, Kenny wanted the ability to senselessly torture Stewart.

Ahead of his anger, he blurted "I wouldn't need exaggeration to put you in jail. And for the record; no, I didn't. It was because my friends care about me." Stewart unhesitatingly swung his chunky, clenched hand into Kenny's nasal bridge, falling out of his chair, but oddly still wielding the Pop-Tart.

"You want to talk more shit, you cunt?" Stewart roared. Kenny kept himself silent. When Stewart left, he sat back up, continuing to eat his Pop-Tart as fury stirred in him. Contempt pulsed inside of Kenny, before he felt depressed.

* * *

><p>Kenny had prayed that there would be booze at the party; he wanted to wash away his depression and internal rage with beer, whiskey, gin, and all of the alcohol underneath the Sun. He wanted to ride on every breathing woman at the party like a mechanical bull. He wanted to unleash all of the calves until they were out of sight. He wanted to run away, and smash his head into the glass of a beer bottle.<p>

Kyle's house was several kilometers away from his; hence he took a city bus as a improvised method of transportation, subsequent to his family restricted from buying more than one car (and of course, they couldn't drive him). When he got there, his jaw dropped on the carpeted floor. Fair enough, there was alcohol at the party. In fact, it wasn't long before Kenny experienced a noteworthy, highlighted night that will become a carouse carousel. Plentiful columns of individual divisions of alcohol were aligned among a table, of which a thin woven diamond-positioned square sheet covered it, as the ends of it hung off of the sides.

Kenny's eyes widened as he entered the Jewish household. A literal _beer barrel _was adjacent to the table, on top of a metallic cylinder, aside an erect baluster that held a stack of plastic, recyclable pint cups. There where then pool tables, streamers that were casted above Kenny's head, and raved lights that shone in nine directions, illuminating the room in primary colors as it spherically rotated.

Music originated from a compact iPod speaker system that increased the volume that was atop a cabinet in the living room. More people that initially anticipated had appeared, crowding the residence. Left and right were women.

As he entered, feeling oddly out of place, Kyle came up to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"Hey Kenny!"

"Drunk yet?" Kenny chuckled. "Nice job man."

"Thanks, Kenny."

"Hey... Kyle?" Kenny asked.

"Yeah?"

I need a favor from you, Kyle. It's unrelated to Bebe, I promise."

"Yeah, sure man. Anything."

"I need you to get me shithammered tonight," Kenny humbly entreated, as Kyle's eyes expanded in abrupt shock. He mouth opened, considering retorting, but paused himself when he saw Kenny continuing. "I mean, seriously man. I _really _need to get washed in booze tonight. Just a fucking carouse, alright man? I really need to get _pounded _tonight."

"Is there something wrong or somethi-"

"No, no," cutting off Kyle midway into his statement, emphasizing his desperation for intoxication. "I need to get into a fight, fuck some bitches, swallow a ton of booze. Please, just this one night. I need all of these things to be check-marked." Kenny sauntered off towards the pool tables which had plastic pint cups atop of them. "Let's fucking go Kyle!" he enthusiastically urged. He wanted to get away from all of his problems tonight.

Kyle followed. Kyle had a sensation of regret, merged with nausea that waves through him, but once again, he told himself 'fuck it.' This is for the weird, immortal, sick perverted bastard known as Kenny McCormick tonight! And it started with a typical game of beer pong to inebriate him. Aside his good friends, Kyle, Tweek, Butters and Stanley, he was happy. He wanted this to last.

"YEAH! BULL'S EYE BITCHES!" Kenny declared, pointing at his own eye with exaggeration, subsequently from shooting a beer pong, and ahead of the opposite side of the pool table, shagged with the rough surface of artificial-turf akin cotton. "Bottoms up, blackjack motherfuckers!" They swallowed a brief gulp, before Kenny started becoming hostile and aggressive towards the possible capacity and/or quantity that they drank.

"That wasn't enough!" Kenny angrily whined.

"Kenny, chill out. I think you need a break from beer pong." Butters acclaimed.

"Hah! Butters! Butters..." Kenny stuttered, before finishing. "Margarine! Hahaha!" He guffawed. Kenny was intoxicated, past the principle of mere belief. Kyle and Stan had hauled him out of the immediate vicinity, preparing to settle him on a couch whilst he calms down. The set him on a couch, where he briefly retired from any alcohol. They sat aside him.

"Kenny... Are you drinking because you're sad?" Stan questioned, concern tinged in the tone of his voice.

"Haha!" Kenny said, lacking a constructive response. Kenny comprehended the question. "Fuck you Kyle!" he hostility snapped, as if he was riposting despite the fact Kyle has yet to ask him any possibly triggering question. He got up, where Kyle and Stan essayed to maintain him ensconced on the couch, but was futile opposing Kenny's hyperactivity. He wandered, momentarily stumbling as he pulled himself upstairs. Stan and Kyle sat down with concern of what surprise a drunken Kenny McCormick will propose at a party.

He eventually emerged after a sustained series of spewing vomitus that primarily encompassed alcohol. As he swayed as he sauntered down each of the series of steps that was bounded in shag, beige carpet, gripping the reflective fiber of the handrail as he circumspectly ambled down the staircase. The following entirety of the shindig, Kenny secluded himself at the counter, constantly pouring pints and shots down his throat. He had been drowning himself, washing away his domestic problems via beer, a little bit of wine, whiskey, gin, more whiskey, and vodka for nearly half an hour, before Stan approached him with Kyle.

"Alright man, the party is gonna rap up. You better stop drinking to get a head start so you can walk home." Stan advised Kenny.

Kenny's ocular plane was rapidly rotating as he pivoted his head, due to the quantities of alcohol he had swallowed: he was skyrocketed-drunk. So as expected, his reply was offset. The only reason no one knew he was shithammered was because he had yet to talk or carouse around the party.

"Fp... ah... do iny uf you guys have blow...?"

"Maybe it'll counteract with the booze," Stan chuckled, receiving a sharp glance from Kyle.

"That's enough drinks for you, Kenny," said Kyle. "come on, buddy. Let's go." They heaved Kenny out of the stool chair, and allowed him to straighten himself while Stan and Kyle departed from him. Kenny went into the front yard of Kyle's house, as the rambunctious blind noise of cheering demoted and the neon illumination dimmed, Kenny implied that the party was rapping up.

He went back inside, still noteworthy to be drunk, and stumbled towards Kyle, who was conversing with Bebe, Stan and Wendy. Kenny emitted the mist of alcohol in his breath as it reluctantly washed over Kyle, giving Kyle the urge to regurgitate. "What, Kenny?" he said, with the tinge of exasperation in his voice.

"Uh...Fpt-when do I go home?"_  
><em>

Kyle grunted, disregarding Kenny's curiosity. He pivoted toward Stan who was leaning against the pool table side him. Stan shrugged nonchalantly. "Should I keep him here? You know his parents..." Kyle asked Stan, who didn't respond. Kyle faced Kenny, who's eyes were departed. "You wanna stay here Kenny?"

"Go..." Kenny eructed once more, before topping it off with a fart, triggering toxic fumes that flooded the vicinity, slightly disturbing Wendy and Bebe. "fuck.. Bebe..." Kyle exchanged perplexed glimpses at each other.

Wendy was silently examining as the events took place. She refrained from even uttering a vocable to Stan, due to the prolonged awkwardness that restricted the two from interacting as of their break up three years prior. She excluded herself even talking to Kyle, other than showing gratitude for the invitation.

"He's a little fucked up..." Kyle informed, exhibiting his specialty of stating the obvious. "You're gonna just chill here with me for a while, alright Kenny?" Kyle said. Kenny ignored, continuing to ogle at the two women's breasts. He released perverted chortles, as Kyle and Stan dragged his flaccidly loose intoxicated body away, setting him on the recliner without any supervision.

"I'll have to keep him home I gue-" Kyle went back to speaking to the group, before the front door abruptly flew open like a magnetic trapdoor. In, stomped the heavy ogre known as Mrs. Broflovski, with her jaw fallen upon her breasts.

She had a rigid, plastic-appearing nose that prominently stood out in front of her. Her eyes were slender, and had ruffled red hair on top of her wrinkled, layered and freckled forehead. She sported a blue, cuffed button shirt on her beefy torso that had difficult fitting through the door when she didn't bulldoze herself inside. Her face stirred with limitless vexation that painted her entire bulky face lobster red, that could drown the heat of a fire.

She lunged in midair, shaking the residence with the powerful mass of her flat, wide feet, before stomping towards Kyle. An incredible roar of rage ensued, as Kyle experienced the lecture of living Hell. All of the invited guests had subtly shuffled behind the giant wall that was Mrs. Broflovski, who casted a shadow over Kyle, who was in a ball.

Kenny remained on the recliner half asleep. But when the feeling of somebody touching him, he lifted his heavy eyelids up as his vision gradually sharpened, absorbing the room again. Someone and pulled him up, because he obviously wasn't going to be able to stay with Kyle for the remainder of the night. The person continued to tug Kenny by his jacket out of the house. He heard the door close, and Mrs. Broflovski's resonant auditory force had decreased before it vanished, as Kenny was being guided down the sidewalk with somebody he had yet to discover, oddly.

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><p><strong>Ok! Literally, the first sentence of the next chapter will be Kendy! Leaving a review REALLY helps me continue writing this stuff. I'd even be open to stuff like suggestions of how I can write better to please y'all. Remember to listen to Canon in D while writing fanfiction :D<strong>


	4. Déjà vu - Chapter IV

_Not much of a headline here... So... Kenny/Wendy initiating in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Rivers Flow In You<strong>

**Chapter IV - ****Déjà vu**

"Kenny... Kenny, wake up,"

Kenny audibly observed the identifiable voice blindly, as he realized that his feet were hastily walking behind the guide of somebody who had him by his shirt. He glanced up, as his vision absorbed the recognizable face of someone who had heaved him before: Wendy Testaburger. Still slightly intoxicated, he raised his hand, gently breaking the confines of her grip from his collar.

"Wendy?"

"You're awake." she said, with the absent tinge of fore-estimated relief in her voice and rather a hint of vexation. She refused to reduce her swift walking velocity that intoxicated Kenny could barely tail on. Kenny had to question the first that initially proposed itself in Kenny's conscious.

"What the fuck...?" He snapped, relatively impolitely, but partially with the target of curiosity as well.

"Do you remember the party?" Wendy said.

"Uh, yeah..." Kenny aloofly replied, increasing his own pace with Wendy.

"Kyle couldn't keep you there as you know," she re-informed, as her head started pivoted in several directions.

Kenny felt a palpable, pulsating beat in his temple, as a major sinus headache weighed his forehead down. He took the extremities of his fingers and lightly pressed them against his head, arching in agony. He took a prolonged pause, and Wendy had stopped herself in her persistent tracks. "Come on now, then!" she urged, oblivious of Kenny's transparent discomfort.

Kenny couldn't muster the strength that was contracted by his affliction to wittingly retort to Wendy's urgency, instead stubbornly remaining in his stance for a few moments. Wendy eventually became vexed enough to grab the hood of Kenny's parka, and harshly tugged it, and Kenny nearly lost balance, completely disregarding his tribulation.

"Come on, Kenny. Just hurry up and you and hunch over all you want." Wendy said, before a thought introduced itself to Kenny, stupefying him why it didn't occur instantaneously.

"Wait, where are we going and why are you taking me there?"

"Kenny, you got completely wasted; you're still currently tipsy," she clarified, leaving impatient Kenny unsatisfied before she added. "I'm taking you home. Stan can't take you and Kyle is having living hell at his house right now. This was sort of last minute to, so..." Kenny promptly became perplexed of why Wendy took him, out of all of the people under the roof at the wingding.

"Why... what about Butters or Tweek?"

"Most everybody had fled before I did, to tell you the truth. Kyle's mom sort of... came... and yeah." Wendy informed, before Kenny released a resonant wave of guffawing at the embarrassment Kyle underwent, illustrating his beefy, monstrous Jewish mother exploding in front of him. He envisioned Kyle being drenched in his mother's saliva after she spewed vocal missiles at him. Wendy rolled his eyes.

There was a prolonged pause. "I'm going back to my place now..." Kenny tipsily stated, starting to saunter off.

"Why? Your house is like miles away," Wendy reminded Kenny who remained reluctant. "Stan and Kyle knew that city buses don't aloud drunk people. Plus, you spent all your money betting it on stuff," her initially snappy attitude dimmed, as Kenny began to absorb slightly more. "As I said before, you're still tipsy." Kenny released a melodramatic sigh to avoid the awkwardness of debt, and ambled following behind Wendy's steps.

Kenny, who was absentmindedly spaced as he involuntarily followed Wendy, had mustered his mental orientation when he found himself on the asphalt of a driveway. He saw a Prius that was aside a Grand Cherokee Jeep.

"Which one is yours?" Kenny curiously asked.

"The Cherokee." she replied, almost immediately.

She subsequently directed him into her house, informing him of the current isolation other than her mastiff, who wasted no time to bombard Kenny. Kenny involuntarily ambled up to her room, and examined the interior. It had matured from her ecstatically archetypal "pink" themed bedroom to a standard bedroom. She had two lustrous, slender championship title posters above the head of her bed: one for the "South Park Elementary Girls Volleyball" and one for "South Park Middle School Women's Cross-Country." Wendy emerged from downstairs, witnessing Kenny sitting on her orthodox-striped bed sheets.

"I'm calling Butters," she stated, retrieving her phone from her pocket. "he should get you."

"You're annoying," Kenny bluntly indicated. "I could have just walked home myself; why do you always have to be the up-stander of everything?" Wendy's facial expression stirred with a sunken self-esteem but also vexation. Her mouth was briefly ajar from offense, before she protested with hostility.

"Excuse me then!" she stepped closer. "I'm trying to be a good friend-"

"Oh, I guess we're 'friends' then, I guess." he aloofly spat. An interval stood between the conversation.

"You're like Stan..." Wendy reincarnated the quarrel.

"How?" Kenny curiously questioned, as a prolonged absence of reply took place. "But I guess there's two sides to every story-"

"Shut up Kenny..." She faded, pivoting her body towards the transparent windowpane. What she did next began to bewilder Kenny, perplexing him as Wendy strode in front of her clothing-drawer column. She retracted the drawer handle, and inside was a sequential organization of arbitrary items. She withdrew a piece of paper, examining it. "Do you rememb-" she stopped herself. Kenny decided not to contemplate the questionability. Wendy wanted to say something, but something unknown to Kenny McCormick restricted her of doing so.

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><p><strong>Yeah, I know; this was a pretty short chapter. But stay tuned! Also, as I said before, leaving a review or opinion really helps, even if it's negative :3 Buh-bye<strong>


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